D'yo Ilu Yamey

Even if all the heavens were parchment, and all the forests quills,
If all the oceans were INK, as well as every gathered water,
If all the earth's inhabitants were scribes and recorders of INITIALS....

Monday, October 27, 2014

On First Looking into Masekhet Yevamot in Summer 2007: A Retrospective

I was unmarried throughout the entire year and a half in which I first learned Seder Nashim, the order of the Talmud that deals with the relationships
between husbands and wives. As I pored over Talmudic pages about who is
permitted to marry whom, and how betrothal takes place, and what happens if a
woman is suspected of being unfaithful, I was reminded of a story about Rabbi
Akiva, who tried to come up with a midrash about the plague of frogs in Egypt.
“There was just one frog,” said Akiva, interpreting the Biblical verse which
literally reads, “The frog came up and covered the land of Egypt” (Exodus 8:2).
His colleagues, upon hearing Akiva explain that this one frog in turn
gave rise to enough frogs to cover Egypt, go on to chide him for expounding
on matters of Aggada. Akiva’s expertise was halakha; he had no business coming
up with creative midrashic explanations. As Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya rebuked,
“Akiva, what are you doing studying Aggada? Desist from these words, and go
study the laws of skin blemishes and impure tents” (Sanhedrin 67b). As a single
woman living alone, I felt like I had as much business studying Seder Nashim as
Rabbi Akiva had studying Aggada. But I too could not help but be drawn to fairy
tales and make-believe, and often in my study of Nashim I found myself
daydreaming about that one-and-only Frog who would overlook my blemishes and come to my tent in the guise of a
handsome prince.

The
name of the first tractate in Nashim, Yevamot, literally means sisters-in-law,
and deals with the Biblical law of levirate marriage whereby a man is obligated
to marry his deceased brother’s widow so long as she is childless. This is the
case even if the man already has a wife, since men in Talmudic times were
permitted to marry more than one woman. The rival co-wives of polygamous men
are known as tzarot, a word that also means troubles. And so when I began
learning this tractate during the summer of 2007, I jokingly referred to this
period as my summer of tzarot. If nothing else, there was the trouble of how
to understand the complicated family relationships discussed in this tracate,
such as the case of a man whose brother is married
to his mother-in-law, or the case of two men who accidentally switch wives
under the wedding canopy, and other confusing liaisons.

And then, of course, there was the trouble of being single.
Officially I was still dating Omri, but our relationship was faltering, and by
that point I was pretty sure it wasn’t meant to be. I probably ought to have
broken up with him sooner than I did, but I was more scared of being alone than
of being with the wrong person – and this says a lot, given that I’d been
married to the wrong person just two years earlier. That summer in addition to
learning Yevamot, I reread D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover when
a used copy appeared in the rack outside my local bookstore. I recall being
struck by several passages about the difficulty of finding a suitable mate: “The world is supposed to be full of possibilities, but
they narrow down to pretty few, in most personal experiences. There’s lots of
good fish in the sea – maybe! But the vast masses seem to be mackerel or
herring, and if you’re not mackerel or herring yourself, you are inclined to
find very few good fish in the sea.” This lack of eligible single men in
Jerusalem was a frequently-voiced lament among my female friends, who always
seemed to far outstrip their male counterparts. Lawrence says this explicitly:
“‘Go ye into the streets and by-ways of Jerusalem,
and see if you can find a man.’ It had been impossible to find a man
in the Jerusalem of the prophet -- though there were thousands of male humans.
But a man! C’est une autre chose!”

If I found no one in Jerusalem, I resolved, I would head to
Harpania, a meeting place for singles who had no luck in their home towns
(Yevamot 17a). Rabbi Zeira says that the town Harpania comes from the two
Hebrew words har (mountain) and poneh (turn). Harpania is the city that
people turn to if they come from such bad genealogical lines that no one wants
to marry them: “Whoever cannot identify his family and his tribe turns there to
find a mate.” It is clear from the Talmud that the Jews of Talmudic Babylonia
were very preoccupied with their family trees. They prided themselves in
tracing their ancestry all the way back to the Babylonian exile in the days of
King Yechonia (600 BCE). And they were interested in marrying only those of
“pure lineage,” those who could construct family trees back for generations.
Certain parts of Babylonia were regarded as genealogically “purer” than others,
and apparently Harpania was the worst; as Rava goes on to say, “Harpania is
deeper than hell.” And so anyone who could not find someone to marry was
encouraged to try Harpania, home of the least eligible bachelors and
bachelorettes.

Jerusalem was probably not quite as bad as Harpania, but even
so, the dating scene did not look good for women. Once I accompanied a friend
to a singles event--the only such event I ever attended--and was distressed to see that the women outnumbered the men
by nearly two to one. And the gap was not just in quantity, but in quality as
well. Most of the women were dressed in stockings and modest but flattering
fitted skirts, with any gray hairs dyed, and any wrinkles or skin blemishes
covered by painstakingly applied make-up. The men—their pants baggy, their hair
disheveled—looked like they had just rolled out of bed. I imagined the men and
women as items on sale in a supermarket: The women were the perishables,
stamped with expiration dates that were rapidly approaching. The men were the
canned goods; they didn’t look all that appealing, but they could remain on the
shelves indefinitely until someone finally decided to pick them off the shelf. Everyone sat in a circle nibbling on stale cookies and drinking apple
juice from a carton in plastic cups, playing silly icebreaker games led by a
pretty woman in a bright purple dress, her hair wrapped in a colorful turban.
Whenever it was my turn, she flashed me a smile that seemed kind but
patronizing, as if I were a little child with a long way to go, even though I
imagined that we were about the same age. I thought of her as the preschool teacher
and the rest of us as her toddling charges. Since when did being single become
so infantilizing?

Living
in Jerusalem, I was surrounded by the assumption
that everyone wanted to be married, and that those who weren’t were incomplete
and longing that things were otherwise. Unlike New York City or Cambridge, there
was no respect for the high-powered career woman or the superstar professor; so
long as she was single, she must be unhappy. I could handle being incomplete,
but the thought of other people’s pity made me recoil and cringe.

The
Talmud, too, looks pitifully upon any woman who does not have a man with whom
to share her life and, more specifically, her bed. Five times throughout the
Babylonian Talmud, the sage Reish Lakish quotes a popular folk saying to this
effect: Tav L’Meytav Tan Du M’l’meytav Armelo. The phrase literally
means, “It is better for a woman to sit as two than to sit alone by herself.”
The rabbis’ discussion of this folk saying unleashes a flurry of colorful
comments attributed to various Talmudic sages about how much a woman is willing
to put up with just so that she can have a husband (118b):

Abayey: Even if her husband is the size of a sesame seed, she is proud to place
her chair among the free women.
Rav Papa: Even if her husband is just a spinner of wool, she will call out to
him to come sit with her at the entrance to their home.
Rav Ashi: Even if her husband is a cabbage-head, at least she will not lack for
lentils in her pot.

It seems the Talmud cannot imagine a woman who could be both happy and
single. Even so, Abayey, Rav Papa and Rav Ashi are not granted the last word.
The passage concludes with the following assertion: “And all these women commit
adultery and attribute their offspring to their husbands.” That is, all these
women who so desperately want to be married are really just interested in
having a convenient excuse when they find themselves pregnant as a result of
their adulterous affairs. Why do they need husbands? So that they can point to
a legitimate father for their bastard children!

This
closing line, astonishing in its flippancy and subversiveness, casts the
preceding statements in a new light: According to the Talmudic sages, a woman
needs a husband so that she can “place her chair among the free women,” that
is, so that she can count herself among those women who are free to have
adulterous affairs! And even if her husband is a cabbage-head, she doesn’t
care, because she’s just using him as a cover so that she can gallivant off and
engage in extramarital sex. For this reason it is better for a woman to be
married than to be alone.

To
some extent Omri functioned as a similar cover for me. He was not my husband,
but as my long-term boyfriend, he enabled me to place my chair among those who
were free from the torture of attending singles events and being “set up” by
concerned, well-meaning strangers. “Are you looking to meet someone,” people
would often ask me, and immediately I would rush to assure them that no, I had
quite enough lentils in my pot, thank you very much.

Shortly
after I studied this passage in Yevamot, my friend Aviva came for Shabbat
dinner bearing the gift of a glass jar full of hard candy. “When you finish all
the sweets,” she told me, “you can save the jar and use it as a vase for the
next time Omri brings you flowers.” I smiled, knowing that I would do not such
thing. Instead, I washed out the jar, filled it with two kilos of lentils, and
placed it in my cupboard alongside my beans, split peas and other dried goods.
I put a label on the vase with a quote from the passage in Yevamot: “she does
not lack for lentils in her pot.” Most nights that summer I had lentil soup for
dinner – alone.

*

In
the Talmud it is clear that men have the advantage when it comes to marriage,
which is described as a one-way transaction in which a man acquires a woman and
may simultaneously be legally wed to several women at once. The Talmud speaks
of the sanctity of marriage, but we hear other less conventional voices as
well, such as the following account in Yevamot:

When
Rav would visit the city of Dardishir, he would announce:
"Who will be mine for a day?"
And when Rav Nachman would visit the city of Shachnetziv, he would announce:
"Who will be mine for a day?"(Yevamot 37b)

Rav
and Rav Nachman, two great third-century Babylonian sages, apparently had a
practice of marrying (or perhaps simply sleeping with) women for a single day. I
understand what was in it for the sages, who presumably had to travel often and
could not always take their wives with them. But I can’t help but wonder what
sort of woman would be interested in such a one-night stand. Perhaps in
Talmudic times, too, there were far more suitable women than men? Perhaps they
were so desperate for companionship that they would rather have a man for one
night than be alone forever? Or perhaps these women were excited by the notion
of being associated with such a great rabbinic luminary?

Personally I am drawn to those Talmudic
stories—few and far between though they may be—of women who have free reign to
choose among various men, rather than the opposite gender dynamic. This is the
case with Rava’s wife, who actively chooses her husband rather than waiting
around like a wallflower to be hand-picked. She is introduced in the
context of a discussion about marriage and fertility, in which the rabbis put
forth principles such as the following (Yevamot 34b):

A woman does not
become pregnant upon her first intercourse.For
the twenty-four months after a woman gives birth, her husband will sow inside
and seed outside. A
woman who commits an illicit sexual act will invert herself after intercourse
lest she become pregnant.

I remember learning these passages in the morning Talmud shiur I
attended at a synagogue in Jerusalem, where mine was the only womb in the room.
While I knew the Talmud wasn’t talking about me personally, the discussion on
the page before us was certainly more about me than about any of the men in the
room. And so when we came to these passages, I suddenly felt as conspicuous as
Virginia Woolf traipsing across the green quads of Oxbridge.

Unfortunately
it gets worse before it gets better. The Talmud goes on to assert, in the name
of Ravin, that “any woman who waits ten years after the death of her husband
before remarrying will never give birth again.” It had only been two years
since Paul and I had separated, but already I was starting to worry about my
dormant womb. It seemed that there was hope for me, and least according to Rav
Nahman, who goes on to qualify that “This
was taught only with regard to one who did not intend to remarry; but if a
woman intended to remarry, then she will indeed become pregnant.” Rav Nahman
suggests that a woman’s psychology may affect her womb (as we know
from the nineteenth-century hysterics). If she intends to have intercourse
again, her reproductive organs will not wither. I was reassured, but the
subject matter at hand still seemed a little too close to home. I hunched over
my volume of Talmud, hoping that none of the men in the room were familiar with
my personal circumstances.

It is at this point in the passage that Rava’s wife makes her
appearance, though it seems like she was there all along, sitting in on an
all-male study group just like me. Unlike me, however, she was not able to
remain anonymous. After hearing the discussion between Ravin and Rav Nahman,
Rava leans over to his wife and tells her that the rabbis are talking about
her. She, too, had been previously married and it seems she had waited a long
time before remarrying and becoming Rava’s wife. “The rabbis are murmuring
about you,” Rava tells her. Rava’s wife seizes upon Rav Nahman’s corollary and
rushes to her own defense. She assures Rava that although she did not remarry
for over a decade, her womb did not close up because she always intended to
remarry, as per Rav Nahman’s corollary. Or, as she tells Rava somewhat
romantically, “My eye was on you all along.”

I am impressed by the bravado of this woman who sits next to her
husband while he is learning Torah with his colleagues and dares to confess
that she had been interested in him for a while. She clearly has a will of her
own, even though she remains nameless. We learn more about her elsewhere in the
Talmud, where she is known as the daughter of Rav Hisda. The Talmud relates the
following anecdote from her youth:

The daughter of Rav Hisda was sitting on
her father's lap. They were seated before Rava and Rami bar Chama. Rav Hisda
said to his daughter: "Which of these men do you want [to marry]?"
She responded, "Both of them!" Rava said, "Then let me be the
second one."

Rav Hisda's daughter, a girl young enough to still sit on her
father's lap, is depicted here like a greedy child in an ice cream shop who
wants both chocolate and vanilla, or like Shel Silverstein's Terrible Theresa
who chooses the middle pancake from the towering stack. If given the choice
between two men, she'll take them both! But Rava does not miss a beat. To the
extent that he can still control his fate, he intercedes. He does not want to
be the first of two men to marry Rav Hisda's daughter, which would mean that
either he would die, or that they would divorce. He'd rather be the second, and
so he wisely stakes his claim. Now it becomes clear how Rav Hisda’s daughter
could have known in advance that she would become Rava’s wife. She had her eye
on him all along because she had chosen him when she was just a young girl. She
always knew that she would remarry, and so she is confident that her dormant
womb will rally when she wishes to become pregnant again.
*

In Yevamot, the
emphasis is not just on marriage but also on having children, which is of
course the first commandment in the Bible – to increase and multiply. The
Talmud in Yevamot (61a) discusses a debate between Beit Hillel, who holds that
a man must have at least one son and one daughter to count as having fulfilled
this commandment; and Beit Shammai, who holds that a man must have two sons.
All the sages agree, however, that fulfilling this mitzvah is so paramount that
a man may even sell a Torah scroll so as to have enough money to have children.
The Talmud then goes on to cite the case of Rav Sheshet (62b), who was
childless because the classes taught by his teacher Rav Huna went on for too
long. Presumably Rav Sheshet found himself staying so late in the beit midrash
that by the time he got home at night, his wife was already asleep! I, on the
other hand, used to go to evening classes with the deliberate goal of staying
out late, so that I would not have to come home to an empty house.

The tension
between studying Torah and raising a family is dramatized in the figure of Ben
Azzai, who captured my imagination when I encountered him in a conversation
about procreation in Yevamot (63b). Rabbi Eliezer asserts that anyone who does
not engage in this mitzvah is considered as if he has committed murder, since
the commandment to procreate is juxtaposed in Genesis with the verse
prohibiting bloodshed. Rabbi Yaakov then demurs that anyone who does not engage
in this mitzvah is regarded as diminishing the image of God, since the
commandment to procreate is also juxtaposed with the verse about man being
created in the image of God. At this point, Ben Azzi chimes in and declares
that anyone who neglects the commandment to procreate is regarded as if he both
commits murder and diminishes the image of God. The other sages leap up
and lambast Ben Azzai for his hypocrisy: “Ben Azzai, there are those who preach
well and those who practice well, and those who practice well but do not preach
well. But you – you preach well but do not practice what you preach!” Presumably
Ben Azzai himself was unmarried, or at
least he did not have children. And so he can offer only a faltering defense:
“What can I do? My soul desires Torah. The world can be sustained by others.”
Ben Azzai is so enamored of Torah study that he cannot bear the thought of
sacrificing his study time for the sake of raising a family.

On those nights when I found myself walking back from class alone while all my friends with kids were ensconced at home, I sometimes
pretended that I, like Ben Azzai, had made a conscious choice. Certainly I had
far more time to study Torah than I would if I were saddled with
responsibilities of raising a family. I enjoyed waking up early every morning
and rushing out the door to my daf yomi shiur, and then coming home late after
attending classes on the weekly Torah portion. At the same time, I couldn't help wishing that I'd known, back then, that it was just a temporary stage of life. If only I, like Rav Hisda’s daughter, had sat on my father’s lap
as a young girl and hand-picked my two husbands. Then perhaps I wouldn’t feel a
flutter in my womb each time I went out among the streets and by-ways of
Jerusalem, looking despairingly at the thousands of male humans in search of my
Frog. All herring and mackerel, it seemed.